


Shigir's War

by Nico_Weetch



Series: The Collected Tellings of Shigir and Other Changeling Folktales [3]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Borderline Mature, Changeling Folktales, Changeling Lore, Changelings, Folktales, Gen, Pre-Series, Shigir Ideale, Shigir Stories, original lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch/pseuds/Nico_Weetch
Summary: The art of storytelling is very near and dear to changelings, as are stories surrounding their trickster folk hero Lord Shigir Ideale.In which Grave Sand is tricky businessSet in a time way before the battle of Killahead.





	Shigir's War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Legionnaire24601](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legionnaire24601/gifts).



> To Legionnaire, who is as kind as they are admirable.
> 
> Suggested listening by Legionnaire: Dunkirk - We Need Our Army Back, by Hans Zimmer  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WnK3YfJ3QgY

“He’s finally come down, but he still wont relax.” the voice came into Moït’s tent with a cold rush of air. Moït turned to the tent flap.

The polymorph was there, out of breath. His form shimmered as he looked over his shoulder and quickly closed the tent behind him.

Moït racked his mind for a name, bus alas he had yet to learn (or remember) what the polymorph called himself.

Ringing his hands the polymorph continued, “I fear he’ll draw…unwanted attention.”

Moït was a compassionate sort, but a changeling (especially those of a certain rank), could only stick their neck out so far.

“You’ve done what you can. The rest is up to him.”

If it were Kio, the polymorph would have been turned away at the door.

Sensing the hesitance the polymorph dropped his hands to his sides, stance set, “You’ll need all the half-breeds you can get for the next charge. Especially if you want to strike earlier when the sun is still setting and use the Western hill side.”

Moït raised a brow, it was good logic, and given with a commanding voice he hadn’t expected.

There was a cold sort of sweetness to the polymorph’s smile that was borderline unnerving. “What would happen if you are short of hands?”

The words sounded threatening, but Moït, with age, knew the words came from a place of concern.

However, one doesn’t reference such things in the open, so deep into camp.

“You’re right.” said Moït, leaving it at that.

And so, together, they slipped away from the camp into a far reaching area of the woods. Near trees so thick they could be older than several hills Moït knew of.

Curled into himself, shaking like a seasoned leaf, was the green winged changeling.

Again Moït was reminded that he didn’t know what his fellow half-breed called himself.

“What ails you, brother?” Moït asked, crouching and making himself look small so not to startle the highly stressed changeling.

The green one struggled and snorted, clawed feet digging into the forrest floor. Occasionally twitching his wings, the hooks of the wings moved as though trying to decide to claw the tree behind him or the ground. Words lost to growls and unrecognized vowels.

“It must have been his first time on Grave Sand.” Moït reasoned.

The polymorph shrugged, unsure. “He’s come down enough to recognize voices at least.”

Crickets chirped in tune with the huffs and pathetic whimpers of the green changeling. Who covered his face, peaking through his claws and following the polymorph Moït talk with eyes that, depending on shadow, glowed gold or foxfire moss green.

“Have you tried smoking hawthorn?” Moït asked.

“I started to make a pit, but the wood is too damp.”

The sickly humidity that clung to them didn’t help either.

Moït fumbled with a pouch and pulled out a bushel of mint leaves. “Have this spread on him, preferably the upper lip - if he doesn’t bite you. You’ll just have to keep talking to him.”

The polymorph gulped and looked at the handful of mint, and then to his friend. Distress very clear on his face as he watched the green changeling’s attempts to curl more and more into himself. 

“I have patrol duty.” croaked the polymorph, “if I stay, they’ll think I’ve deserted.”

“Or died.”

“And when I do turn up again?”

Moït scratched his horns grumbling. His jowls shaking with an exhale. Glowing eyes looking from one changeling to the other. “Fine. I have it from here.”

The polymorph didn’t move. A protective stillness creeping.

“You came to get me, you got me. No go make sure we weren’t followed, and get to your station.”

The polymorph hesitated, glancing at the green changeling whose wings rattled slightly, and left as he was commanded.

Moït sighed yet again when the polymorph was far enough away, and crouched in front of the green winged changeling. Snapping his claws. “You in there?”

The changeling’s eyes followed, followed without seeing, without registering. Moït was then more specific where he snapped his claws, favoring one ear or the other, and watched as the changeling would still register the direction the sound was coming from.

At least until the changeling made for a swipe at Moït claw, spreading his wings in a desperate show to look bigger.

“Bushigal!” went Moït falling back, he raised his arm in a show of giving up, his ears very low. “It’s alright! Just testing your hearing a bit. You know who I am, right? You’ve heard me talk before. I’m still the one your polymorph friend went to get. Same half-breed. Moït.”

The green changeling retracted his wings, quirking his head in angles that reminded Moït of carrion birds. Claws opening and closing as if grabbing for something.

Moït sighed, and started to grind the mint into a fine paste in his stony palm. The smell wafting through the sticky air. Occasionally peaking through to the side to watch the changeling slowly start to take deeper and deeper inhales of the air. Smelling the mint.

“Uplifting isn’t it? A good soothing smell.” Moït placed a few uncrushed mint leaves into the changeling’s curling and uncurling hand.

It took a while for the changeling to notice it was there, as if there was a delayed response to physical touch. But when the green winged one noticed, he brought it up to his tusked mouth, and ate a few of the leaves.

“If you sit still long enough, I can hand you more. And place this where you can smell it better.” said Moït, noticing how the changeling started to look confused as to why the mint leaves he just ate were no longer in his palm anymore. “Think you can manage that?” Moït asked, waving more mint to see if the changeling’s eyes would follow.

The changeling went to swipe at the hand, but this time Moït was ready and pulled his hand away, “Well? Do we have a deal? You have to respond if you’re in there. And I know you are. I know for a fact you can hear me from the In-Between.”

The changeling gave a huffed exhaled snort from his nose in response, but stopped trying to swipe at Moït’s hand.

“Good…good.” said Moït pressing more mint into the changeling’s hand, and starting to try to spread some of the past below his nose, and on his cheeks. “Now, you’re going to have to let yourself calm down more, and come out of the In-Between little brother. It is a dangerous place to remain in, even if it does make you feel invincible. You are also, at your most vulnerable.”

The changeling looked at Moït for a very long time. With almost a semblance of recognition in his glowing eyes. Until he huffed a snort, and open and closed his claws for more mint to eat.

“Well the fact you’re being more responsive is a start.” noted Moït, he sighed and fished for more mint leaves. His clawed nails and palms stained and fragrant from touching the herb so much.

“Little brother the In-Between is a transitional place. We visit, but we may not linger.”

The changeling, eyed Moït for a bit, almost contemplatively. Though when he noticed Moït looking back at him, the winged changeling went back to rooting through the mint in his hand like a wild boar roots for mushrooms.

 

Moït sighed, and scratched the curve of his horn, tempted to let the changeling fend for himself, when an idea slunk into Moït’s mind.

 

“Even Shigir knows better than to linger in the In-Between.” said Moït. The changeling lifted his nose from his palm. “Ah, _that_ got your attention now, didn’t it?” Moït mused.

The changeling offered to show Moït the mint, as if bargaining the mint for the rest of the story.

This amused Moït, “No, no keep it. You need it more than I.”

Moït moved to settle himself onto the damp earth better. If telling a story is going to be what it takes to get the changeling to come down the rest of the way from the Grave Sand, then, he might as well get comfortable.

He could go for some of Crumb’s pipe right about now. Though, considering the importance of smelling the mint, it probably was for the best it wasn’t around.

“Now, we know the In-Between as the place between shifting forms. Our journeys there are brief, and when we are there, we are whole. Grave Sand helps edge ourselves closer to the In-Between, but there is a cost, as it causes an imbalance in the make up in how we’re made.

“Or so that is what they told me, and so I pass this knowledge onto you.

“Though _how_ we’re made is another question all together. One I hope we’ll learn, at least in your lifetime, little brother.

“Now Shigir has visited the In-Between many times in his own lifetime. Much like how we’ve visited it. Except this time, in _this_ story, Shigir lingers.

“It begins during one of Shigir’s many encounters with Death.

“These encounters are never planned, but when Death comes, Death appreciates being received smartly.

“ ‘O Wondrous you! O Wondrous Death! What brings you to cross my path once again? Are we still simpatico?’ bowed Shigir low, with a twirl of his crook.

“ ‘We are good Lord, we are simpatico. And may this be the continuation of many greetings to come. I’ve come to see what new tricks you have in store for me. For I have grown bored in my walking.’ Death smiled, but then again, Death is _always_ smiling. ‘Though, you know what will become of you should I not be amused.’

“ ‘Never do I forget it O Death. As much as you never forget to smile’ replied Shigir standing upright.

“Death laughed at this. For Death, to do what they must, must have _some_ sense of humor.

“ ‘Good.’ said Death, ‘ _Good_. Then we can begin. What can you present to me today?’

“It was by our Pale Lady’s luck that Shigir had slain a Gumm- erm-” Moït leaned to the side and grew quiet for a bit. Trying to remember his placement in the wood, and how far away from the camp they were. Meanwhile the changeling had grown equally still, though that was more due to listening to Moït than fear of being overheard by a Gumm-Gumms.

The deep breaths of mint, and stillness, helping with the residual Grave Sand high.

“Well, Shigir had earlier slain a Gumm-Gumm” Moït said quickly. Not savoring the choice as much as he’d usually have. “And had the Gumm-Gumm’s stone hand, and arm in a pouch.”

“ ‘With these remains, O Death, I can grind them to dust and blind my enemies with it!’ and Shigir presented the pouch for Death to see.

“ ‘I am not your enemy, Shigir. And I see with eyes or without. Besides, you can do the same thing with any bit of dust - be it yours, or the earth’s. Try again.’

“Our hero frowned and spun the pouch, he was beginning to get a bit nervous, when an idea came to him.

“ ‘Alright, olde friend. Then watch what I can do with the dust and remains when they stay _in_ the pouch!’

“So Death did. Death watched, and waited patiently- for Death has all the time and patience in the world.

“Shigir crept behind a bush by a roadside and waited for a traveler to pass. After a few bird songs, two travelers started walking down the path; a fellow half-breed, and a human cousin.

“The two were very focused on their conversation. Perhaps it was gossip of a near by king, perhaps they were lovers, but right when their conversation became interesting, and the two travelers least expected it, Shigir jumped out from behind the bush and struck them both with the pouch with the Gumm-Gumm remains inside.

“ ‘Sorry friends.’ said Shigir, crouching to the travelers with his crook. ‘but Death is watching.’

“And without other words, or waiting any response Shigir turned and beamed a smile at Death showing the pouch expectantly.

“Death gave no response, but smiled.

“With a cartwheel, our hero was before Death the Smiler once more.

“ ‘Well then olde friend? Were you not amused?’”

“ ‘I have watched you play that trick before Lord Shigir- and those times, there were no remains inside your pouch, but ordinary rocks.’ Death started to stand, and said with a distant sadness. ‘Has the time come?’

“Shigir, before Death, started to panic. He might have started Welling and losing his senses with the way Death was staring. But our hero is a clever sort.

“Shigir, in avoiding to look at Death’s eyes, and reaching hand, instead looked at what he had in his disposal. Our hero noticed he still had his crook, still had the pouch, and that Death seemed interested in what Shigir could do with the remains that he couldn’t do with any old rock or stone.

“An idea, finally came to our hero with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and a smile that made all the magpies jealous.

“Even the unconscious travelers could hear the magpies sighing.

“ ‘Sit back down O Death, olde friend! For I have more tricks yet!’

“Death smiled, nodded, and sat down again.

“ ‘I shall use this these very remains to conquer my next target. A target of troll sized strength that alone without tricks I could not pull off.’

“ ‘What do you mean, good Lord?’ asked Death curiously. ‘With what strength?’

“ ‘O Death!’ chuckled Shigir delighted with anticipation. Already seeing his victory before beginning, and feeling rather proud of himself. ‘With a strength even you yourself have!’

“ ‘This does sound pleasing. Go on then Lord Shigir.’

“So our hero opened the pouch, and set to work. He took time to refine the dust as best he could. To make sure even the largest parts became as small, as the smallest parts.

“When satisfied, Shigir placed himself again behind a bush, and waited for a troll to pass.

“When one did…they were as large as a _mountain_. A fearsome troll warrior with a long blade that sent sparks as he walked.

“Granted Shigir could have settled for any number of troll, but noticed Death to be most interested in this one. So, hoping to Le Fay, Shigir placed his nose into the pouch and breathed in as deep as he could.”

Moït demonstrated such a breath, and the green changeling’s wings twitched, inspired to take a deep breath as well. Though the changeling breathed in more mint rather than Grave Sand. His eyes getting less dilated.

“And with that deep breath, Shigir absorbed the strength of a full troll, a whole troll, untouched by the sun, or the Eldritch Queen’s gifts. What Shigir gained in strength, Shigir lost in cunning.

“So our hero fought with the troll, and although Shigir wasn’t his usual crafty self - that crafty self was there in the muscle memory of his fighting. Using the weight of the troll against themselves, and Shigir’s own size and nimbleness to his own advantage. But his attacks were more egregious, his blows and strikes all the more sharper and harder.

“Death the Smiler watched on, pleasantly, curiously.

“Finally the troll was brought down, choking on their own ripped off tongue. And Death applauded.

“ ‘Most entertaining Lord Shigir! To use the remains, and strength against themselves! What _will_ you think of next?’

“Shigir did not answer. He hovered over the dead troll, looking wide eyed and feral.

“For a moment, even Death was worried. Worried that Shigir would try and attack them next. Though as both Shigir and Death already know - Death cannot be fought.

“ ‘Are you there, olde friend? You have pleased me. What say you to this?’

“Again Shigir did not respond, but looked down at the troll hungrily.

“ ‘I see.’ said Death. ‘It seems you are far away.’ Death contemplated for a moment, and moved closer to Shigir. Shigir did not hear Death approach - no one does - for he walks softly and treads like sand and shifting dust.

“ ‘Lord Shigir, as you are alone right now, with not a friend near, and Ohou too far away to help - for all the tricks you have shown me in the past - I shall grant you this gift.’ and Death stretched their hand and touched Shigir’s forehead. ‘I shall grant you movability within the In-Between so that you can remember yourself. But be warned. Mark my words, and heed my chattering.’ said Death most seriously. ‘Do not linger.’ ”

“Linger?” huffed the changeling, eyes looking less wide. His toes wiggled under some leaves, and his wings seemed more calm.

Moït smiled, but smiled sadly. “Yes, little brother. Do not linger.

“Though, like you, Shigir would linger. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Death touched Shigir’s forehead, and Shigir’s body started to crackle with his own form changing electricity. But, instead of changing, our hero was transported to the In-Between.

“At least that is what it felt like to Shigir. Meanwhile Shigir’s actual body was placed beneath a tree, hidden behind a bush.

“ ‘Good luck.’ said Death, putting a branch over Shigir to help hide him. ‘Until we meet again.’

“Meanwhile, behind his eyelids, Shigir witnessed the In-Between. A curious land with an orange sky, red grassy plains, and a sun that bathed everything in a blue light.

“A light that gave no heat, but give warmth. There in that ocean of red grass.

“Our hero stood there in the sweet breeze for a very long time. And the longer he stayed, the more comfortable he felt.

“Shigir looked at his hands and claws, and did not feel that jigsaw feeling most fellow half-breeds felt.”

Moït heard a small gasp of recognition. The kind of tiny inhale that happens when hearing a feeling that is all too relatable. Moït smiled, but did not acknowledge the changeling’s reaction. Not wanting to embarrass or bring attention to it.

Instead Moït looked down at his own claws, and nodded.

Then Moït turned to the changeling with a smile that lingered, looking at the now far more present changeling, and said. “ ‘Now I remember.’ said he, ‘I am Lord Shigir Ideale!’

“Our hero looked up into that strange and boundless orange sky and started to laugh.

“ ‘I should have come here sooner! This is such a wonderful feeling!’ and Shigir gasped with an idea, ‘I should try and bring all my half-breed siblings here!’

“Shigir jumped over a green rock using his trusty crook as a vault, and jumped again to see if he could get a better idea of his surroundings.

“However, everywhere Shigir looked there were more and more fields of rolling red grass. Scarcely any trees. Our hero scared an off colored pheasant in his attempt to sit on top of his crook to look around some more. The clouds rolling in were of a burgundy hue.

“But as unsettling as this seemed Shigir did not mind. For the air was sweet, and the birds chipped and cried, and the blue sun was warm.

“ ‘A fellow can really be complete here! Why - why I can even say I am complete here! It must be this place that completes me!’

“ ‘Is that so?’ came a voice as soft as a viper’s slithering. ‘ _Complete_ , Lord Shigir? I think not.’

“Shigir turned to see the figure who spoke, and nearly fell off his crook at the sight of the speaker.

“ ‘This place will not complete you.’ rain started to fall from the clouds, except it wasn’t rain, but ash, soot, and dust. Remains of the fallen half-breed. ‘But this place will always greet you. You who have no Name, you who are _called_ \- Shigir.’ said he who was once called Ebb.

“Our hero slid off his crook, and stepped back defensively, raising his trusty weapon. ‘What are you doing here, O Green Knight? What do you know of this place?’

“The Green Knight chuckled, as if enjoying an inside joke. ‘I am of this realm now. I and all the other half-breeds who have either fallen, or been given their name. Come, come Shigir - do you not recognize this land?’

“And, as if the realm itself bended to the will of the changeling with his Name, the fields began to shift in its red sea. Banners and spears and horses and carriages started to rise. Battlements erected itself. And the red grass began to stain our hero, marking him with red - with blood.

“However, it was not changeling against troll that Shigir witnessed. Nor even Gumm-Gumms against the adversary!

“No, far worse; it was changeling against changeling. A battle of forms. A battle of self.

“ ‘H-how.’ said our hero appalled and hurt, ‘how did I not see this when I arrived?’

“ ‘Because you live it Lord Shigir. You and every no Named half-breed like you.’ A horse started to rise beneath the Green Knight’s feet, oozing up from the dried and cracked ground. The Green Knight pointed to the field and the wailing and turmoil. ‘This, Shigir, this is your war.’”

“Shigir’s crook lowered, and tears welled our hero’s eyes, at the ghastly visions. Their battle never ending. Even when struck down. Their dust reforms, and they are there to repeat the battle.

“ ‘Stop it.’ said Shigir with shaking fists. ‘Stop this fighting!’

“ ‘No.’ said the Green Knight. ‘I cannot.’

“And in a flash Shigir attacked the Green Knight. Scratching his horse with the claws of his feet. He who was once Ebb, retaliated, and struck back against our angry hero.

“And so they fought. They fought in anger, they fought in sadness. As did all the other ghostly half-breeds on the field, in that grassy red sea, with banners waved under a blue sun.

“They fought long and hard, until even the Green Knight started to feel tired, his horse by now long dead.

“ ‘Why does this place exist?!’ yelled Shigir in a fury of rage.

“ ‘Because it is a part of all half-breeds. We are a turmoiled bunch. We are neither one or the other.’

“ ‘What do you know of turmoil?! You who were once Ebb! You the Green Knight! _You_ Bertilak Bredbeddle!’

“And in that moment, the Green Knight did something Shigir did not see coming. The Green Knight lowered his weapon. 

“Bredbeddle spoke in a voice so soft, it was a miracle Shigir could hear it over the chaos of battle, ‘I stole my Name, and now I am of the void - and of its absence. I, fight here too, Shigir. For I still remember Ebb.’

“Shigir lowered his weapon, and looked at the Green Knight in a way no other changeling has looked upon him in centuries. Looked at him, as a fellow Half-breed.

“ ‘Lord Shigir, I have watched you, and tried to kill you for many years. Tested your loyalty, and hoped for your failure. For all these reasons, for the years we have known each other and fought each other. I do not wish to war with you. Not here. Not this time.’

“And the Green Knight lowered his weapon, the great Shears. Its sheer weight hitting the ground caused dust to rise.

“Shigir looked at the terrible weapon Shears, and then back to the Green Knight. The once called Ebb, spoke, ‘I will allow you to leave this place, but do not linger again. For if you do, I will trap you, and _kill_ you.’ At this point the Green Knight’s horse rose from the dead, and the Knight mounted his steed once more.

“The Knight, continued, ‘Leave this realm Shigir, and return to your body. For without your wit - you are but a husk. Leave now Shigir - but, if you are clever enough, you may leave learning from my failed, and yet _successful_ trick. From my heist against our Eldritch Queen.’

“The Green Knight raised his hand, and Shears returned to his grasp. ‘We are not what we are called, nor our Names. We are neither troll, nor human. We are neither what our Creator intended, nor Her wants.’ he who was once called Ebb raised his head to the clouds and the falling soot, as if being washed over by rain.

“Finally the Green Knight spoke again, ‘We can not rely on other things to make us feel whole, but rather, _ourselves_.

“Shigir was quiet for a long time. Feeling as though he ought to say something. They stood their, and contemplated the Green Knight’s words.

“ ‘Well then, Shigir?’ asked the Green Knight, ‘What will you do?’

“Shigir looked up, though he was not ready with a response, and in Shigir’s hesitation the Green Knight ran our hero through with the mighty Shears.

“However! This was not Shigir’s end. No, for with that blow, Shigir returned to his physical body with _much_ to think on.

“And so, as inviting as the In-Between is, we must remember it is only part of our war. We can not linger, or we will be trapped. As we can not always rely on what little sympathy remains of the Green Knight.

“Or so - that was how it was told to me.” finished Moït.

“Thank you. Thank you for that brother.” said the winged changeling, who by the end of the story was fully returned to his senses.

The changeling rubbed the remaining mint from his upper lip, and let out a slow steady sigh. “I’m sorry for the trouble this must have caused.”

“Say no more little brother.” said Moït getting up, and offering a claw to help the changeling up as well. “Say no more. You are not alone in this war.”

And the two clasped arms, and the sky was orange in the hues of the coming morning. And together, the two changelings returned to the camp, and their own wars.

“By the way,” said Moït as they walked down the field. “What _do_ you call yourself?”

The green winged changeling looked at Moït, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the mural within the National Museum of History in el Castillo de Chapultepec in Mexico City by Jorge González Camarena titled 'La Fusión de Dos Culturas'  
> (I can only hope I did the piece justice)
> 
> A hauntingly beautiful piece of art that I invite everyone to look into;
> 
> A link to an image: https://javiergarciamoreno.com/2015/10/09/fusion-de-dos-culturas/
> 
> A link to a wiki page that talks about 'El Abrazo', another piece Jorge González Camarena did which inspired the title piece: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_abrazo_(Jorge_González_Camarena)


End file.
